The Prince
by Harlequin de Rustre
Summary: A boy of strange origins comes to the Village Hidden in the Sand. What happens next will change the world...
1. Chapter 1

I do not own the licensed intellectual property herein, nor do I profit from this.

The rising sun warmed him, and the wind caressed his face. His lover's arms encircled his waist in a tight embrace, her body pressed against his strong back. The two soared through the air on the back of the stone sphinx, caring for nothing but each other.

It was an amazing adventure to bring them here, and back together at last. Many strange and fabled places were traversed, and their vast array of obstacles and tribulations overcome. No step taken came without danger, and every moment would be retold for many an age.

The Prince marveled at his fortune, and that of his beautiful princess, in the face of such strange and wondrous adversity. Even with all his cunning and skill, it was fortune- fortune, it must be!- that had been the deciding factor. Nothing was easy, and if not for the Prince's sharp mind and fast hands, as well as the guiding hand of Fate, death would have borne on swift wings to him and many more.

By blade and foot, he escaped dungeons, scaled towers, fooled traps, and overcome the many deadly warriors Assan had put between them.

Magic had played a key role, too, for the many wounds the Prince had accumulated; Had it not been for the restorative elixirs he discovered, he would have surely perished. If not for the draught of Ahriman's Oil left to moulder in the scaffolding of his prison, he mightn't have ever escaped in the first place.

For all that Fate had given him, the Prince was grateful. Every chance he found, he took it, and thanked Ahura for his hand in all the Prince's fortunes. Never did he believe- even for a moment- that it was merely him that helped him win back his love from Rugnor.

"You saved me," the princess murmured breathlessly, holding her love tighter. The Prince turned in his seat, still firmly holding the reins.

"And I love you stronger than ever." He smiled warmly.

In that moment, all was perfect. It was something that could have lasted forever, such was the powerful, enduring love between them.

Fate, however, had other plans. The sky darkened unnaturally, the sun seeming to dim and shrink away. The Prince tightened his grip on the reins, as did the princess's own hold about his waist.

Wind, cold and violent, tore through the air around them, buffeting them from all sides. The Sphinx wavered, but dutifully maintained its course.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky began to tint a sickening green. The blood drained from the Prince's face. This was no simple storm; fell magic was at work here.

With that realization came a deafening boom, drowning out all with its unearthly clamor. The gusting strengthened, and the Prince felt it as if it were a wholly physical thing.

A incredibly powerful gale pushed the Prince from the Sphinx as if it were the hand of a giant. The young hero held on with all his will and might, but it was not to be. Another wind came and plucked him away, sending him hurtling down into the dark.

As the Prince fell, his eyes strained to keep focused on his young love, who watched on as her prince fell further and further away from her.

In a land very much apart from the home of the Prince, there came a crack of thunder and lightning in the night. A comet shone in the sky, burning with a fiery, blue flame, before plummeting into the endless dunes of a merciless desert.

The next day, a stranger came to the gates of a secret village.

It was typical for the guards of the Village Hidden in the Sand to receive visits from wanderers from the desert, but there was a particularly unusual visitor that day. A young boy, carrying a sword and a scabbard in either hand, approached the west entrance.

He was tall for his age and gangly, naked save for sweat and caked-on sand and grit. His fierce grey eyes glimmered beneath a slick brow. His lips, cracked and dry, were parted in a pained grimace. The breath gushing out through his gritted teeth and nose sounded harsh and forced- a sign of extreme exhaustion.

The guard present laughed derisively at the sight of this weird and wretched child. With nary a sound, the boy rushed at the cruel man, swinging the sword he held wildly.

It was all the man could do to keep his head, such was the ferocious onslaught of the feral boy. No sound passed through the young assailant's mouth save the gush of painfully labored breath, all his will focused in attacking and attacking and attacking without pause.

This continued on for a while, until the guard had managed to get some real distance between him and the boy's merciless swinging. With that, the strange attacker collapsed, still holding the sword tight, blood seeping between his bony knuckles.

Chuckling, the guard threw his canteen at the child. When it had almost reached him, the boy swung fiercely at it, lodging the blade in the container.

When he realized that water was leaking out from the object his tormentor had hurled at him, the boy hurriedly put his lips to the keen gash, swallowing several mouthfuls of cool water.

With the boy so occupied, the guard rushed him. The child warrior was no fool, and had dislodged the canteen with a flick of his sword and began to bring it to bear as the man closed the distance.

Steel met steel, the boy's sword striking a small dagger the guard had produced from his sleeve. A flurry of violence ensued, the sand awhirl with danger, blades flashing about in slashes and stabs, checks and feints, blocks and swings. From that small amount of water he'd swallowed, the boy was renewed. His attacks were stronger, his hands and feet faster, and his movement more efficient.

In a matter of minutes, the guard's compatriots entered the fray, most spectating, some taking part in the action. Even then, the fight was at a firm impasse, with the guards being faster and more numerous, the boy countering with a longer, sharper weapon and a white hot determination to survive.

The "battle" waged on until dusk, when the guards became bored and had to change with the night watch. They left the boy there, still very much alive, though certainly much more tired.

All assumed the rabid child would be dead by morning from such exposure to the elements, and this was a rational conclusion. Some held doubts in their minds, though, including the first guard; if such a wild boy could stand the merciless climes of the desert of Wind, what would make the night any different?

What happened during the night, none could say. However, when the morning had come, the boy was gone. No corpse, no sword- not even the scabbard the boy had dropped in the middle of the fight.

The day guard had chalked it up to the shifting sands burying all.

Then came the rumors.

There was a strange boy in the city, stealing bread and water, hiding in shadows and clambering over buildings as easily as walking. In some of the rumors, he had claws as long and as sharp as knives. In others, he could choke the life out of a full grown man. In still others- these tales more interesting than the rest- the boy had a sword and knew how to use it.

Now THAT is how you start a story!

How about it? I think this is a good start, wouldn't you agree?

Review and give me your humble opinion.


	2. Chapter 2

Back again. On with the story!

For some time, the rumors of the savage boy were something bordering on fantastic gossip and indisputable fact. Someone had to be stealing a loaf of bread, once at dawn and again at dusk. Someone had to be responsible for the missing clothes and strange noise on the rooftops. Who else but the strange boy from the desert- the one who fought the guards for a day and a night and snuck into the city, leaving a trail of blood from his many wounds?

This was a novel subject of discussion that quickly became an old wives' tale, something that mothers told their children to make them behave.

"Come straight home after getting the groceries, or the wild boy will take you away."

"Finish your supper or the wild boy will sleep under your bed."

"Listen to your father or the wild boy will steal your clothes."

The tales went on and on. It was a while since the actual boy was the inspiration for the gossips in the village, but it didn't matter; it made for good conversation.

These various stories enjoyed a modest popularity from the traveling merchants passing in and out of the village, so now and again there would be the traveler asking about the boy, and sometimes the boy's sword.

Years passed, the tales of the wild boy persisting as a part of the culture of the Village Hidden in the Sand.

Then Gaara was born.

Gaara was son of the reigning Wind Shadow, and was thus dubbed "of the Desert" as his proper surname. This was uncannily apropos, as the youngest of the three "royal" children was gifted with the village's secret power.

Within him was placed the soul of a mad monk, a near demonic spirit that had the innate power over sand. It was intended that the child become the medium for the spirit, channeling its control of sand, thus becoming the secret weapon- and ultimate defender- of the village.

The lord Wind Shadow desired his progeny be trained from birth, so as to maximize his potential. The mother of the child had no say in the matter, as she had died giving life to Gaara.

What was even more unfortunate, however, was as time went on, the loss of his wife twisted the Wind Shadow's mind into believing that his medium son was what killed the love of his life. In this the ruler buried himself, deadening the emotions he felt toward his youngest until he saw naught but an animal to be trained.

Thus began the assassination attempts. Time and again, an agent of the Wind Shadow was sent to test Gaara's mettle, to keep him sharp. Due to his young age and lack of experience in the ways of fighting, the boy only had his birthright as a medium to ward off his attackers, and in that way the cold machinations of his father worked wonders.

However, just as the loss of his wife had warped his father's psyche, so, too, did the attempts to kill him and the enforced alienation bring Gaara nearer and nearer to his breaking point.

And when the young medium was close to succumbing to the bizarre mutterings of the insane spirit within him, he met a fellow strange boy.

He met "the wild boy".

It was a bright night, the full moon arching high in the sky, and no clouds blocked it's gaze.

Gaara, the child medium, was awake. He had to be, in order to keep control. Years without true sleep had rendered his body emaciated, even in one so young, and the flesh around his eyes was a bruised, ugly color from his being kept awake for so long.

The constant threat of attack had rendered him vigorously paranoid, his dull green eyes flicking about with practiced motions. His other senses were open, as well, and given no less attention. Experience had honed the use of his sensory perception to an intimidating level- so much so that the drop of a pin was as obvious to him as a cannon shot to a layman.

So when he heard a soft padding behind him, Gaara struck at the sound out of instinct. The boy turned to face this newest opponent.

Before him crouched a thin figure garbed completely in rags, these covering everything but its hands and its eyes. The attire was confusing, more in line with a garbage heap than the Wind Shadow's usual assassins, even the more covert ones, but that didn't really matter.

Gaara lashed out with his sand again, intending to end it quickly before any more killers arrived. He was surprised when the attack did not meet the intruder. Not the fact that it didn't hit- the first attack rarely did; The surprise came in that the figure did not use the token substitution technique, instead maneuvering around the blade of sand and withdrawing the sword on its back.

The sword was of alien design, curved like a dog's tooth and as wide as a man's arm. The steel glimmered in the moonlight, the faint scribing of some bizarre language visible along the length of it. The slight, tracing movements of the weapon in the rag-bedecked figure's hand indicated a strong familiarity with it.

Not wasting time, Gaara lashed out again- and again. Both times the arms of sand were belted back by the assassin, startling the boy medium.

He did not stop, continuing to slash, slinging out sand quickly to keep from leaving any vulnerabilities for his opponent to explore. Again, the vagrant sword wielder swatted back the weak attacks at his body, throwing the grit back in the boy's face with the flat of his weapon, blinding Gaara and causing him to stumble and fall back.

The boy medium manipulated the sand under him to break his fall and bring him back upright. He did not give the opponent time to take advantage of the pause, and he raised a veil of sand to guard himself.

Gaara began attacking again without waiting for the sand to fall, sending more sand from random directions and in varying ways, seeking to stretch the opponent's defense wide enough to gain an opening. Infuriatingly enough, the ragamuffin seemed to know more about fighting than the previous assassins did, and let the boy medium know that.

And so the sand medium began anew, trying to ensnare his adversary in his sand as well as attack head on. The figure seemed to begin to use more effort as well, though it seemed to keep mostly to swatting away sand with the sword and dodging.

The child medium pushed harder, putting more and more sand into the effort to overwhelm the assailant. However, nothing seemed to work, nothing got through or did any damage. Every attack seemed to hit a dead end.

The final straw came when the ragged figure swatted the contents of one more attack into Gaara's face. And then it was on.

The confrontation raged on, continuing onto rooftops, into alleyways, through the streets, up stairs, and back to about where it started. Neither gave way, nor was any injury inflicted on either opponent. Like many years ago, it was a dead heat.

Unlike all those years ago, the age difference was smaller and both sides were strong enough to continue for days if need be. However, it didn't.

The struggle continued long and hard, neither adversary willing to give an inch. It was only due to the real assassin interrupting that it did not continue until one or both sides were dead.

Presuming the wastrel to be an enemy soldier, the Wind assassin moved against the sword wielder. With naught but one movement, the strange fighter struck down the intruder.

Gaara seized upon the brief opening and attacked. Somehow, Fate had seen the young medium to miss his intended target, the throat of the stranger, instead cutting the rags about the stranger's head.

The dirty cloth fell away, showing the face of the bedraggled swordsman. His face was young, tanned from exposure to the elements. In his cool, grey eyes was honesty- and calm, something which the younger boy envied greatly.

The boy did not move, his gaze holding Gaara's. And he turned and walked away.

Thus began the odd friendship.

Weeks passed, with Gaara eagerly searching to find that odd visitor whose eyes did not cloud with hatred or fear. His search was without the reward of even a glimpse of the mysterious boy.

He watched the bakeries in the morning and the evening, and the lines of clothes on washing days. The boy medium even meditated outside to keep watch. His attempts still came to no avail.

Soon rumors spread of Gaara being the wild boy. The Wind Shadow quickly took issue with such petty invective, banning their discussion. Nonetheless, the mutterings remained, if uttered in softer voices.

It seemed as if Gaara had gained nothing from his search, until he heard of something new. A merchant of sweet-smelling artifacts and perfumes was railing against the market guards over the theft of a part his wares. In the past two days, his stock of dry sandalwood had gone missing, dwindling quickly whenever the merchant did not give it is full attention.

What really caught the young eavesdropper's attention was the mention of an unseemly figure hovering near the merchant's stand now and again, clad all in rags. The merchant had begun seeing this odd fellow around the same time his stock began to deplete, arousing his (and Gaara's) suspicion.

It was fortunate that the guards in attendance were the usual undutiful sort, exchanging jaded glances and laughing in the merchant's face.

Once the boy decided he'd heard enough, he moved on, ruminating thoughts of how to find the wild boy with this information.

Then again, what _did_ a rogue of the streets want with pieces of wood, anyways?

Gaara had his answer soon enough, as a burning smell invaded his senses. It was somehow pleasant…and alluring, as well.

The young medium followed the scent, intent on finding the origin of this pleasant, mysterious smell. Sure enough, it led him to a dilapidated building not too far away.

The double doors at the entrance were shabby and in disrepair, but their ornate design and decoration gave them a mysterious charm. Gaara went through them carefully, though the doors opened with little sound, despite being in such disrepair.

Once inside, the scent of burning seemed to dilute, although Gaara still smelled it hovering discreetly just within his sense of smell, tickling his nostrils.

Odd; usually an odor increased in strength the closer one got to the source… The boy medium quickly dispensed the thought as irrelevant, though it still bothered him, somewhat.

He made his way through the strange place, the complex designs on his surroundings seeming to move with him, dancing and flickering like a dying flame. The place was dark, nearly pitch dark, and yet everywhere Gaara looked, he saw perfectly well. It was a strange, unfamiliar, and beautiful place, and it scared him and drew him in with equal force.

However, he was looking for the wild boy, his strange visitor, not a place of meditation (although coming back would not be out of the question...).

The young medium's search seemed unnaturally prolonged; he had entered the building- temple, if the decorations on the walls were any indication- near an hour ago. Yet he seemed no closer to the source of the smell- and possibly the wild boy- than he had when he had first entered this place.

He walked for so long that he no longer remembered the way to the exit. It just seemed to go on and on…

What was strange about this was that he didn't seem to tire at all. His lifestyle, if you could call it that, was harsh and quite hard on his body as a result. He wasn't the most athletic of boys, and his physical endurance was much like an enfeebled old man's rather than a young child's. But he'd somehow walked for a straight hour without exhaustion or pain…

Strange…

As Gaara walked on, his mind wandered a bit. He silently mused about his various concerns, and about the wild boy and how he would find him at last. After a time, he just followed the scent of burning, however much good it did him, and concentrated on that.

In an instant, the smell rose up and surrounded Gaara, it's trail no longer discernable. It confused the boy, but he still concentrated, hoping to find a way to the source, and, thus, the wild boy.

A scraping sound issued from behind him, and the boy medium whirled around, ready for anything.

What he found was what he'd wanted to find for so long- his midnight companion. The ragged boy sat with legs folded on the floor, stoking a fire with the tip of his sword.

The odd thing about this scene before the boy medium was the flame of the fire. Unlike most fires he'd scene in his life, the flames licking the charred sandalwood burned a pale blue color, unlike anything Gaara had ever seen before. Odder still was what came next.

The wild boy turned to look at his single visitor, calmly taking in the small, unintimidating frame of a small boy barely able to walk. His eyes held no malice or false pity, just like before. They both looked at each other for a moment, still and unafraid.

Then the older boy opened his mouth as if to speak, breathing in as he did so. In that brief moment, a piece of flame broke away from the fire and flitted through the air, entering the boy's mouth and alighting on his tongue. Gaara thought to say something, but it happened so fast and the other boy barely seemed to take notice.

"Come; Sit," said the wild boy, motioning for his guest to sit next to him. His lips did not seem to match what he said. However, Gaara acquiesced, slowly making his way over and lowering his frail form to rest on the floor. The wild boy smiled slightly, nodding.

"Close your eyes," the ragged boy said, "Hold still."

The boy's words seemed to link up a bit better with what he was saying this time, though Gaara hardly noticed, as the elder boy had taken the sword in his hands and dug it into the pile of burning wood, lifting out ashes balanced on the flat of the blade. The blackened, sooty remnants of the sandalwood smoldered slightly, smoke wafting off of it.

The wild boy nodded, indicating Gaara do as he demanded. Without pause, the boy medium shut his eyes.

A heat pressed against his forehead, and he felt soft, hot powdery ash wipe across, sweeping over his closed eyelids. The pressure quickly lifted, and the young boy heard the sword digging into the fire again.

Gaara opened his eyes, blinking away errant clods of soot. He saw the wild boy take his sword tipped with ashes and smear it across his forehead and eyelids, just as he'd done with Gaara. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at the younger boy.

Again, they sat there, silent and immersed in the moment.

"What is your name?" Gaara asked, blinking again as some ash fell off of his forehead.

The wild boy raised an eyebrow in amusement, somehow not dislodging any of his own ash. "You may call me…" the boy in rags visibly pondered for a moment, before straightening up and looking the smaller boy dead in the eyes. "Babak."

"Babaku?"

"Babak" grinned mischievously. "You can call me that, too."

And so they became like brothers.

Zoroastrianism is fun~

Look it up some time!

You've read this, now review. Any qualms or questions are mine to answer.


	3. Chapter 3

And we're back with more!

Fast, huh? Hopefully, it's fast and _good_.

The relationship between Babak and Gaara was a pretty simple one, yet one his siblings found hard to understand. Gone was the onerous, sullen child they had known for so long, now replaced with a brother with a still silent, but thoughtful and vibrant demeanor. All because of this strange, foreign-looking boy whose only legitimate possession was the sword he strapped to his back.

When Gaara had first introduced him to them, the first thing they'd noticed was that both looked like they'd headbutted a coal scuttle. Next, they noticed the two were almost synchronistic in their movement and almost preternaturally aware of each other, no matter what the other was doing. It was, frankly, both frightening and confusing.

Playing games was something the Wind Shadow's children didn't do that much together, but they picked it up well enough, now that Gaara wasn't frightened to move from a particular spot for fear of "something happening". Of course, now that his temper was under control, that wasn't too much of a problem.

The problem that replaced this, however, was that putting Gaara and his first ever playmate on the same team was the worst idea ever. Not for the two of them, no, but for Kankuro and Temari, it was a losing proposition.

Kicking around the football between the four of them meant that it near immediately became a game exclusively between Gaara and the ragamuffin unless one of the other siblings was able to intercept before the tallest one of the group got the ball.

Guessing games weren't fun when the other team's members always knew what the other teammate was thinking.

Hide and Seek was fun for a while, until Gaara and Babak decided to team up again and terrorize the other two children playing.

At the end of the day, Gaara's siblings were exhausted. Not only exhausted, but strangely content. After having such a depressing atmosphere in their family life, with their father being so removed and Gaara such an emotional mess, it was…nice…to have a brother they could have fun with. Perhaps they'd never beat the tag team from Hell, but it was far-and-away better than the alternative.

The feel-good times did not last, however, when Gaara decided to show off his new friend to his father.

Who hated him.

The Wind Shadow hardly ever showed his face anymore, due to his constant work to rearrange the village budget to fit within the increasingly strangling confines of the decadent Lord of Wind's allowance, as well as seeing to the moderation of standards and admissions within the village military. If he wasn't already mad with hatred of his youngest son, he'd have been driven insane by the insurmountable odds his despot of a lord had saddled him with.

The Village Hidden in the Sand ran on two things: militarism and mercantilism. Much like any other Hidden Village. Unfortunately, the imbecilic Lord of the Land of Wind had overtaxed every business in Sand Village and imposed a ridiculous tariff which required an obscene bleeding of funds for every rank in the Sand army, and a second tariff if they were trained or training in the arts of assassination and intrigue…like the Wind Shadow's subordinates were.

Thus, that regal imbecile had effectively suffocated any chance of the Wind Shadow focusing on building the strength of Wind, rather than just barely maintaining what was already there. What was worse, Wind's Lord was not using the funds acquired from raping his own country to productive ends like developing new settlements within the currently inhospitable climes of the Land of Wind or plotting out mines and dig sites to help increase the flow of interest in revenue and population. Instead, all this money was being funneled into a debauched lifestyle that squandered the Land of Wind's tax money in the most economically horrifying way possible. It was almost impossibly infuriating- that is, it was nearly impossible how infuriating this situation was to the ruling Wind Shadow.

His whole job at this point was maintaining this ridiculous juggling act in tandem with Hidden Sand's Civic Court, which had long since put aside differences in politics, as did the Wind Shadow, to keep the Village Hidden in the Sand from collapsing into obscurity and ruin.

As such, it did not do well to interrupt the Wind Shadow in the middle of keeping the whole world from collapsing. Especially not with tedious concerns. Especially if those concerns were not voiced by a person of import. _Especially_ if those concerns were voiced by the village's fledging monster, his youngest son, and the killer of his wife.

So it was likely the Wind Shadow was going to commit infanticide any second now that his much-beloathed son Gaara was interrupting his busy work with some new plaything. But, like as he was to murder this obstruction, he still had his scruples and would stand by them until said obstruction said the exact wrong thing.

"Father…" the demon said, quavering with what had to be guilt, "…I would like to introduce you to a friend of mine…"

The Wind Shadow and father of this small tormentor breathed a sigh laced with tiredness and hatred. "I do not have time for these idiotic games; I have a country to run."

"But- father…" the pale-eyed creature's beguiling countenance contorted into a pitiful face, but was ruined by the hideous darkness around its eyes, much to it's father's relief. "It's the wild boy."

The Wind Shadow would feel the vein in his temple throbbing tremendously. "If it's to be a distraction from my work, it's to be a destructive distraction," he pinched the bridge of his nose, and then dropped his hand to rest on his desk, "So; you've made acquaintance with this village's primary nuisance."

The veiled man rifled through the "Completed" stack of paperwork, and produced several forms. He stood up, moving to the front of the desk, and leaned back on it, making sure not to bump into anything on it.

"The same nuisance," he began, a slight growl in his voice, "who leeches off of the village bakeries, public and private, twice every second day."

The Wind Shadow slipped the top page back onto the desk. "Steals the drying laundry of random civilians in the main quarter of the village…"

Flick. "Creates general civil unrest by carrying a weapon…"

Flick. "Commits the crime of vagrancy across the village. Tourism here is bad enough as it is…"

Flick. "Increases the workload of the already overworked public medical facilities by physically assaulting various lower-tier civilians."

Flick. "Intimidates the village guard, most frequently during the night shifts."

Flick. "Molests the feminine portion of the population- wait, I didn't approve this article."

Crumple. Toss. "And creating general unrest in the population and disturbing the peace."

The Wind Shadow stood up, walking closer to Gaara, unenthused. "Not to mention-"

He brandished the last sheet of paper in his hand. "-he stole from a foreign perfumer a stock of ingredients coming to a total of 172 ryo."

The veiled man took the paper and went back to put it on his desk- forcefully. He turned to face his son, taking slow, steady steps toward it. "Ryo. Not yen. Not wu. Not lire. Not even drachmas. Ryo."

He stood two paces away from the thing at that point, and thus stopped. Gaara's father looked down on Gaara, eyes frozen in an unsympathetic glare. "That is expensive. That is a lot of money. Money this village needs."

Gaara shook slightly, understanding the implications. He knew the suffering of the village on a personal level. People already in foul moods due to not having enough money to eat properly or bathe regularly, forced to bear undignified lifestyles, had no room in their hearts or pity to spare for a monster like him, if they would have any at all in the first place.

"You should understand, Gaara, that the 'wild boy', who cannot be proven, is immediately applicable to this village. Anything he breaks, I have to fix. Anything he steals, I have to pay for. Anybody he offends, I have to listen to. I have to reimburse every merchant he lifts merchandise from."

The Wind Shadow sighs tiredly.

"Most of the merchants that set up shop in this village are foreign. They pay for the rental space, which is in fairly low demand, they sell goods and pay for the few we have to offer them. It's worked out well enough, although some merchants gouge their prices so ridiculously I'm tempted to have them run out.

"And then when they're stolen from, regardless of who the hell did it, it becomes 'wild boy' and I have to dig into the village coffers to give back the money we made off these people. I've been able to keep the village problem from becoming a common excuse to scam the entire village, but it's 'genuine incidents' like these that make my work on this problem more difficult than it already is.

"I have more serious problems to worry about.

"But, more to the point, you come to me to present the second thing I least want to see. Foremost being, of course…"

Gaara felt very small at that moment, and very alone.

"I do not plan to waste my time with additional anxiety."

"But-"

Gaara's father turned his back on him, making his way back to his desk.

"Leave."

"I think-"

He turned around, now at the side of his desk, and pointed at the door behind Gaara.

"_Leave_."

"He's-"

"Leave _now_," the Wind Shadow commanded, pulling out his desk chair, "This is the last time I give you an audience."

"But it's the _first_ time you have, father," the young medium said, pleading. "I'm asking you to listen to me."

"I'm not listening to you, I'm telling you to leave. Now."

Gaara bowed his head and left it hanging, turned, and exited the door, now defeated.

The Wind Shadow sighed, looking over his work. His mind was unfocused, now that his unwanted, unneeded son had interrupted him.

For a moment, it was almost as if Gaara had spoken with his wife's voice.

'_I'm asking you to listen to me._'

He sighed again, taking off his headdress and running his hand across his shaven head. The father of Gaara grimaced, breathed in deeply, and exhaled.

"Baki. Bring him back. And get the walking toe rag, too."

"So this is your friend," commented the newly uncapped Wind Shadow, glancing over the pile of tatty rags and dirt standing in his office, "I'm not impressed…"

"He's a lot better than he looks, father," said Gaara, defensive, "Want him to show you?"

"No, thank you; I like my stationary and sundry possessions where they are." The shaven man sniffed.

"I don't mean _stealing_, father, I mean _fighting_. He's really good."

The Wind Shadow raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You can attest to this, personally?"

"Yes; I fought him myself!"

"You do realize, as the container of the spirit within you," Gaara's father drawled, "that you are, essentially, the village's property, yes?"

"Uhm…"

"Your 'friend' is committing an act of treason. Or he would be if he was a civilian. As is, he's an illegal alien. Testifiably an invader on the village's military tribunal. Attacking you, then, would be an act of war. Where is your 'friend' from? I'm sure his people will be thrilled when I bring their war to them."

"Um…" Gaara looked up at his friend, who was standing fairly still despite the implications. "Where _are_ you from?"

"Persia," the scruffy boy said confidently.

"Perusha…" the Wind Shadow echoed, steepling his hands and examining his thumbnails "Where _is_ this Perusha, friend of my son?"

"I don't know, father of Gaara," the ragamuffin replied.

"What direction did you come from?"

"Er…Up, I think…"

"Up? What direction is 'up'? Don't you know the four directions?"

"East, North, South, West? I do know them."

The shaved man squeezed his hands. "Yes, so how did you get here and from where?"

"Up. I fell."

"Oh my ffuu-" Gaara's father buried his face in his hands.

Baki, standing by quiet for so long, stepped forward respectfully, bowing slightly and saying, "I do believe he is being sincere, Lord Wind Shadow."

The addressed peeked up from his hands. "How so?"

"The story that the gate guards told claimed that the wild boy fell down in a comet."

"I'll have to take this fairy story on faith, I suppose…" the shaven man grumbled, scratching his scalp. "What else is new?"

The Wind Shadow put down his hands with a thump. "Alright, so he's from 'Perusha', he _fell_ from 'up', and he's somehow not dead from falling from the sky into the desert in a fireball. Am I correct so far?"

"Yes," said the Persian sky-baby.

"Fine, then. What is your name, Perusha boy?"

"I go by 'Babak'."

"'Babaku'? Easier to say than 'Perusha', I suppose…

"Alright, Babaku," the Wind Shadow looked at the boy squarely. "what exactly does 'Babaku' do?"

"Well," he said, "I fight."

"And…?"

"I…fight…"

The shaven man raised an eyebrow. "Really."

Gaara, unable to contain himself any longer, made his thoughts known. "Father! He can do more than that!"

"Oh?" said Gaara's father, lacing his fingers and leaning back in his chair, "Enlighten us."

"Well, he…he climbs really good…"

"Yes?"

"Jumps really good, too…really high and really far…"

"Anything else?"

"Um…he's pretty fast!"

"Hm…Hmm." The Lord Wind Shadow leaned forward a bit, adjusting his posture.

He breathed out through his nose, smirking. "Can't say I'm impressed. Any man under my command can do that, right down to the bottom rung. He doesn't have any credentials, I have nothing to go on but anecdotal evidence as to how competent he is, and I doubt he has any ability in the creation and use of chakra, from my impression of him."

The Wind Shadow gave his son a hard look. "I doubt I could use him, if that's what this is about. As your 'friend', he's a dangerous liability. He's armed, he's young, most likely foolish, and he's a foreigner from an unknown nation. I don't like that."

"But he's really nice- and- and… he's really nice!"

"That's quite the argument, Gaara, but I don't see what I want to see from him. As is, you're better off without him."

Gaara's eyes widened, and he raised his arms, flailing them randomly. "That isn't fair! He's the first person who's been nice to me without being made to or because we're related! He's fun! He killed one of those guys who always come after me!"

Gaara's father looked up. "Is that so? Another mark against him, I guess. Gaara-"

He stood up from his chair quickly, taking up his hat and putting it back on. The once again veiled man looked at the two boys standing across from him for a time. Then he adjusted his hat, saying "-you can have him."

"But WHY- what?" The little boy's face quickly switched from a child's outrage to befuddlement. "Just like that?"

"I don't see why not," said the Wind Shadow, glancing down at Gaara, "his reflexes aren't bad…"

"What do you me-" Gaara began, glancing over at his friend.

Babak did not look very pleased. Most people seldom did when they have a dagger thrown at them at the drop of a hat- or, in this case, the picking up of one. The taller boy had just barely finished straightening up from having to dodge the unexpected weapon aimed at his throat.

"Oh." Gaara felt confused about how to feel about this- on the one hand, he got to keep his friend; on the other, his father just tried to murder that friend.

The Wind Shadow smoothly moved from behind his desk, saying "I want you two to spar together. Weapons or not, I want you two to fight. Every day. As frequently as possible."

"Um…okay…" Gaara shuffled his feet.

"I want you sharp, and I find this a more suitable way of doing it."

Babak's brow wrinkled. "'_More_' suitable way?"

The veiled man waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Nevermind that. Just focus on playing games and beating the crap out of each other."

"Um…" the two boys mumbled, nearly at the same time.

"Go on, get going. I have plans to make and legal issues to sort out."

Gaara glanced up at his father, hope in his eyes.

"You're dismissed. Now go."

With that, the two boys left.

The Wind Shadow shook his head, sighing. He paced a little around the room, coming to stand at his desk. "Another heap of problems to take care of."

Baki, still standing at his spot in the room, made a sound of agreement at that. "Indeed. Why did you decide to deal with the boy like that?"

"I fully intended to kill the boy, Baki, and he was able to move in time to dodge it. He didn't do anything else, such as duck behind Gaara or charge at me."

"Hardly proof, Lord Wind Shadow, if I may be so bold as to say so."

The older man coughed, saying "You don't have my eyes, Baki, nor my depth perception; why you wear your veil like that is beyond me.

"I saw how that boy moved. He was fast enough to do a number of things. Instead, he stuck right there beside Gaara and the boy didn't notice until he looked. That's all the 'testing' I need."

"But what if he's a spy? Surely that is a pressing issue."

The Wind Shadow chuckled, sitting back down at his desk. "If I was a bleeding heart like the any one of the current generation of Leaf nin, I would say that there is no way a child like that could be a spy.

"As a Sand nin, however," he continued, taking up his pen, "I can safely say that we'll find a way to rat him out soon enough. No harm now, he's just getting started, but don't think I won't have an eye on him. You have your eye on him. Both of them, if you can afford to part from your fashion statement."

Baki shifted where he stood, uncomfortable. "Lord Wind Shadow, I wish you would not make light of my choice in dress…"

"Why not? The moment you stop complaining about it is when I know you're a fake."

"But I hate it when you do that."

"As I know full well. Perhaps some day you can abuse my idiot son the same way."

"Gaara? I know you're not fond of him, but-"

"I'm talking about the other one. I have a funny feeling about that one; soft in the head, and he's acting more and more like a queer. More than you, honestly."

Baki pursed his lips annoyance, knowing that his superior was enjoying this moment of levity way too much for his liking.

"Making faces like that makes you an easy target, Baki.

"In any case, we need to talk specifics with these arrangements with the former village nuisance…"

"Sir?"

"Well, the fool can't be allowed to romp around free now that he's a friend of the Lord Wind Shadow's youngest, now can he? He'll need his own quarters, preferably near Gaara, and he'll need proper clothes as opposed to the hideous wardrobe he has now…

"But, first, we'll need to clean him up. Preferably with a hose."

A rather light ending to the chapter. More and more away from the "legendary" tone from the initial chapters.

All should be spiffy in time.

For those who're a little bit behind on things, let's go over some fairly obvious things:

I'm not writing in dialect: I will use English terms as much as possible. This is so you people actually know what you're looking at, and so this story doesn't come off all wapanese like the usual crap coming out of the Naruto fanbase these days. Sorry, you active Naruto fan ficcers, but you really need to stop trying to be as Japanese as possible- it inhibits your creative process by giving you a language nobody here really understands and it makes you sound like a try-hard multiculturalist nerd.

I read up on the worlds surrounding the content of my story: I have injected a bit of what Persian culture was like into the story. The religion is the most obvious, what with the ashes and all. Less obvious is our wonderful Prince's name, Babak. Guess what it means? *ahem*

I'm going with the **old Naruto canon**: No tailed beasts. Not really, anyways. Gaara houses the spirit of a mad monk kept in a tea pot, like it initially said in the damn series. Deal with it. Naruto still contains the Nine-Tailed Fox, because that's a part of Japanese mythology. Srsly, look it up. Two-tailed cats, I believe, are also in there, but I dunno if I'm gonna let Yugito in for fear of placing the story a little bit closer to the current canon.

Look, if it's not obvious at this point, I'll spell it out for you: **I hate the current canon and fanon.** It sucks. It's not worth reading. Everything's spelled out for the idiot fans and there's no room for our imaginations to wander. The whole story's been boiled down to the old DBZ formula of endless confrontation and cheap gimmicks. It's boring. It's melodramatic. I don't like it and I can't work with it without having to heavily satire it. Just the one bit with the Kazeka- WIND SHADOW riffing on Baki is me using the character as a mouthpiece. I'd like to avoid that sort of thing in the future, and I hope you'd agree with me here.

For those with concerns about Red Dawn (Akatsuki's English-y translation, I believe) with this new change, my plan is to not have it. The characters that were part of it will be scattered around the world, doing what they will do when not chained down to some retarded world domination scheme.

As for Itachi, I feel that that whole story's pretty much independent of the Akatsuki thing. All the other Shippuuden bits connecting to him will be altered, if not totally removed.

Look, if it makes it up to you, the Prince and Gaara as the tag team of adventure and loveliness should be enough to fill the void. This is running off the original PoP canon, rather than the new UbiSoft shite canons or the movie canon, so there'll be plenty of magic and weapons.

For the Phillistines who are so lacking in knowledge, the original PoP games were awesome and fun plotwise. They were like 1001 Arabian Nights kinds of tales, but with their own flavor. Less ninja stunt crap, more everyman stunts and action. Less twirling swords and time traveling, more intense duels and mysterious supernatural phenomena & worlds. Not that there's not gonna be lots of running and jumps and fun tricks, but my point is that that was not what Persia was like or what a Persian person would do.

To clarify, the Prince in Sands of Time does lots of parkour stunts. Now, I fucking LOVE parkour, but this was Ancient Iran; this was _not_ the latter part of the 20th Century or the set of Jump City. Wallrunning looks awesome and pleases the average gaming fan, but it doesn't feel like the Prince of Persia fighting, it feels like the cop from Banlieue 13 fighting. Let's remember the authenticity of the times, mmkay? That's my shtick in this story.

The world of Naruto is a fucked up, weird-ass world with tech and culture all over the place, so I won't mess with it. However, I'll try to interpret what I can to give your guys a believable result. Not just an interesting result, but a believable one. Tell me what you can to help me keep you interested in this story.

I have a few other points to make, but I think I've wasted enough screenspace on notes for a chapter or twenty.

Inadvertently, now you know why I've kept the notes in preceding chapters so short; I tend to go off on a tangent. Well, that and it retards my creative process.

Anyways, see you in the next chapter!


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